


The Bay Horse Lane Affair

by TelWoman



Category: Eroica Yori Ai o Komete | From Eroica with Love
Genre: Gen, M/M, Mission Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-29
Updated: 2016-08-29
Packaged: 2018-08-11 18:51:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7903774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TelWoman/pseuds/TelWoman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Klaus is sent to help out an allied agency with a mission involving communist agitators, stolen artworks, stake-outs, black market art deals, enemy agents, and far too much instant coffee.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The familiar bends of the River Thames came into view as the plane dipped down through the clouds. Klaus folded his newspaper and stuck it into the seat pocket.

He was not looking forward to this mission. He shouldn’t be doing this himself, he thought – wouldn’t be, if he’d had the choice – but the Chief had over-ridden his objections and insisted he take on this joint operation with the English secret service personally. 

The briefing had been vague; something about small-scale political agitators being recruited into larger, more dangerous networks. He’d told the Chief it sounded straightforward, something one of the junior officers could do, but the Chief started blustering about credibility, and sending a senior officer to underline the importance NATO placed on the operation. It was bullshit, of course. Klaus suspected the Chief was just trying to curry favour with his opposite number in the SIS, for some spurious reason of his own. 

An announcement came over the plane’s audio system, advising passengers to fasten their seatbelts and put their seats in the upright position. Weak English sunlight glimmered on the tops of London’s buildings. Klaus didn’t expect that he’d be in London for too long. The operation, whatever it entailed, should be wrapped up in a week. Maybe less.

.  
.

Klaus was met at the airport by a driver sent from SIS headquarters, and a junior agent was waiting for him in the foyer when he arrived.

“Major von dem Eberbach? Pleased to meet you, sir. I’m Toby Neville. We’ll be working together on this operation.” 

Neville’s handshake was firm, and he looked Klaus in the eye when he spoke. Confident, without being too full of himself, Klaus thought. He didn’t look very old, but – well, perhaps he’d turn out to be competent. 

Neville led the way to an office on the first floor. Just as he was about to knock on the door, a man’s strident tones could be heard from within, saying, “—and you can tell him from me, I don’t appreciate having a damned foreigner foisted on me to tell me how to run the operation!”

Neville, blushing to the roots of his hair, glanced anxiously at Klaus, whose face registered no expression at all. Neville knocked, and opened the door, revealing the office’s occupant in the act of slamming down his phone.

Introductions were made. Rhys Munro, the officer leading the operation, shook Klaus’s hand, and invited him to sit down. No reference was made to the phone call. Klaus didn’t care; he’d behave exactly the same way himself, he thought. He wouldn’t give a shit if someone overheard his opinion of them. So what if the fucking Limey in charge didn’t want him on the case? He didn’t particularly want to be there himself.

Rhys Munro wore a tweed jacket and an Old Harrovian tie, and his face seemed to be set in a permanent sneer. His office was tidy, devoid of personal touches. He didn’t acknowledge Neville, who sat down in the chair farthest from Munro and faded into near-invisibility. Munro didn’t waste time on social niceties, but got straight down to business.

“Well, Major, we’ve already made a start on this matter. The situation’s been escalating for some time – been brewing for years, in fact, although matters have only become serious in the last twelve months or so. A long-time political agitator here in London has begun shifting large sums of money around. Indications are that he’s become involved in something at a much higher level. We pulled him in the day before yesterday. His name’s Parker. He’s unemployed, to all intents and purposes, although he claims to be a painter. An artist. He’s a communist agitator, and he’s been a member of the Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament since the year it was founded.”

Klaus looked at the black and white photos Munro handed him, showing Parker full-face and in profile. The man looked about seventy, but if he’d had a rough life he might have been a few years younger.

“He’s been under low-level surveillance for some time now,” Munro continued. “Over the last five or six years, he’s been raising money for the CND by dealing in dodgy goods.”

“CND approves?” Klaus asked, incredulous.

“No, not at all. They didn’t know. Parker gave them the money and its source was never discussed. We’re not talking about overly large sums, here, Major; maybe fifty or a hundred pounds at a time.”

Klaus frowned. “So what’s made you think this might have become an international matter? Why involve NATO?”

“Because about twelve months ago, he started to deal in bigger items. Much bigger. The change has been consistent. Something’s happened; someone else has got involved. Have a look at this.” Munro slid a document across the table to Klaus. “This is a list of items we’re aware have passed through his hands since the change. As you see, Major, he’s been handling some seriously valuable goods.”

Klaus ran his eye down the list. Antique jewellery, works of art, rare cultural artefacts. The estimated values listed alongside the items were lofty sums indeed; some were in the tens, and in a few cases, hundreds of thousands.

“Where was he getting this stuff from?”

“That’s the question, Major. Who’s supplying him, and why? Neville’s been investigating where the money goes.” Munro nodded at his junior officer, who sat up in his chair, shaking off his temporary invisibility. “Tell Major von dem Eberbach what you turned up last week.”

The younger officer cleared his throat. “When Parker sells the items, it’s always for cash. He takes that to the bank straight away. But then, the next day, the money’s automatically transferred out to another account. In Zurich.”

“Zurich? What would a small-time political agitator in London want with a Swiss bank account? I take it the account’s not his?”

“You can go through the details of all that with Neville later on,” Munro said, waving a dismissive hand. “Now, when we cleared out the flat, we found some jewellery – classy stuff, too – and there was an oil painting. I can see you’re going to be just the chap we need for this next stage of the operation, Major. Your Chief in Bonn said you’ve had considerable experience dealing with works of art; he said art is a special interest of yours.”

_Oh, did he? The bastard._ Mentally, Klaus added yet another score to be settled with the Chief to his ever-growing list. 

Munro shuffled through the pile of documents in front of him and lifted out a colour photograph. “This is the painting. _Lucifer Expelled from Heaven,_ by Giovanni Lanfranco.”

He handed the photograph to Klaus, who scanned it with a dispassionate eye.

An agglomeration of wings, weapons, and bodies in varying degrees of nudity. Overdramatic facial expressions. Exaggerated muscles. Sombre clouds. The usual histrionic bullshit.

“You’d be familiar with the Italian Baroque movement, Major?”

“Valuable, then?” Klaus said smoothly, sidestepping Munro’s attempt to make him look foolish.

“Well, Major, that’s for wiser heads than mine to ascertain. It’s been sent off to an art gallery where I have contacts – Tallowford Hall, in Twickenham. The Chairman of the Board was at school with me.” A supercilious smile bloomed on Munro’s face, and faded away as quickly as it had come. “He’s arranged for the Head Curator to authenticate the painting for us.” 

Klaus handed the photograph back. “So, this painting was found at the flat when you brought Parker in. Have you got the place under surveillance?” 

“Surveillance? Of course not. Surveillance costs money. It’d be a waste of time, anyway; nobody’s going to go back there.”

Klaus stared at Munro, astounded. “How do you know that? You should be covering the possibility, at least!”

“Look, we’ve cleared out the valuables and any papers we found. We’ve got everything the place is able to give us; no need to waste time paying for surveillance.”

Klaus clenched his jaw. “It was a mistake to clear the flat out; it should’ve been left intact and kept under observation.”

“Not your decision, Major,” Munro said tightly. “What’s been removed can be examined properly, where we have the resources to do it. We’ve got a couple of junior officers going through those here at Headquarters. Watching the flat would be a waste of time and money. Nobody’s going to go there.”

“If anyone does, and they find the place has been stripped out and Parker’s gone, the whole operation’ll turn to shit. They’ll disappear, and go to ground. I don’t know why you can’t see that.”

Munro’s face flushed with annoyance. “You might run this differently if you were in charge, Major, but you’re not. SIS is running this operation, and we’ll run it our way. _Verstehen,_ Major?”

Klaus and Munro glared at each other. 

“Er, should I cue up the videotape?” Toby Neville broke into the tense impasse. 

“Yes. Thanks, Neville.” Munro shuffled his papers together and offered Klaus a patently false smile. 

Klaus returned the smile, cold-eyed.

The interview tape started to roll, showing Munro seated at a small bare table, opposite the prisoner.

_“Your name is Edward John Parker, and you live at number 123 Bay Horse Lane, Stepney?”_

_“Correct.”_ The interviewee’s answer came in a clipped, resentful tone. 

_“You’ve been brought here to answer questions about your involvement in the receiving and selling of stolen goods, and your connection to certain activities detrimental to national and international security. Do you understand?”_

Parker stared belligerently at Munro for long enough to make it plain he was feeling uncooperative, then said, _“Yes,”_ in the same tone as before.

The interview lasted nearly an hour. Parker freely admitted that he had been raising money for the CND for years by selling items, but he refuted any suggestion that he was selling stolen goods, saying that the items had been donated. When Munro challenged him about the change in value of the goods he was dealing with, Parker simply replied that the donors had become more generous. 

_“Perhaps you’re giving the proceeds to a different organisation, now that you’re raising larger amounts of money?”_

Parker bristled, indignant. _“What do you mean?”_

_“I mean that having found out selling stolen goods was a good way to raise money—”_

_“They’re donated goods.”_

_“—you’ve seen an opportunity to provide bigger funds for a bigger cause. Who are you giving the money to?”_

At this, Parker became quite animated, gripping the edge of the table and leaning toward Munro. _“Bigger cause? There is no bigger cause than world peace! I’ve been a supporter of the Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament from the start, and I’ll go to my grave a CND supporter. Every penny I’ve raised has been for the CND. For peace.”_ Parker’s eyes bulged and spittle flew from his lips. _“That’s something you and your fellow spooks should be working for, instead of trying to stamp on people who are politically aware, and turn them into sheep.”_

As the interview proceeded, two things struck Klaus. The first was that the old man was almost evangelical in his support of the CND, and mightily offended that anyone should suggest he would betray that organisation in any way. The second was that he skilfully deflected each and every one of Munro’s attempts to find out who else might be involved. The old curmudgeon gave very little away.

The screen went black, and Neville switched off the tape.

“You didn’t get much information from the prisoner, then,” Klaus remarked dryly.

“He wasn’t exactly cooperative.” Munro’s habitual sneer deepened. “But now that _you’re_ here, Major, I’m sure we’ll make progress.” He flicked through the papers in front of him and squared them up into a neat pile. “Y’know, Major, I’m surprised that NATO sent the head of the intelligence unit over; one of your juniors would have done. Still, a week or two attached to a cushy operation with an allied agency should be as good as taking leave, shouldn’t it, Major? You’ll go back to Bonn refreshed.”

Klaus’s face didn’t betray the fury boiling through his veins. “If the operation’s so insignificant, I’m surprised that your superiors needed to call us in to assist. But as I understand it, Munro, your background’s in domestic security; perhaps you’ve overlooked some of the potential international implications. That’s my area of expertise.” He smiled, his eyes blank and cold. _And fuck you, you condescending Limey bastard._

Munro’s face flushed with annoyance. He gave Klaus another false smile, holding his temper in check, as he pushed the pile of papers across the table to Klaus. “There you are, Major; all yours. Neville will be working with you; he’s under your direction for the duration. We’ve assigned you a desk on the second floor. Neville will show you the way.”

The three of them stood up, preparing to go. 

At the door, Munro paused and said, “Oh, and by the way, Major – an old friend of yours asked to be remembered to you. Charles Laurence. I believe you’ve worked together in the past.” 

Stony-faced, Klaus said, “We know each other.”

“Laurence speaks highly of you; he regrets very much that he won’t be able to catch up with you while you’re here.”

“H’mph.” 

Klaus couldn’t tell what Munro’s opinion of Laurence was, but he thought he caught a glimmer of amusement in Neville’s eyes.

“Well, we’re all busy men, and Laurence is on assignment at the moment. Good luck with the operation, Major.” Munro left, and the door swung closed behind him.

Toby Neville gathered together the videotape of the interview and his own pile of documents, and led the way out to the lift. 

“Your desk’s on the same level as mine, Major. Let me know if I can help with anything,” Neville said as the lift doors closed and they began to travel up to the next floor.

“Thank you.” Klaus looked at Neville, assessing. “Do you know Laurence?”

Neville nodded, poker-faced. Then, he grinned. “Yeah, I know Laurence. Man’s a wanker.”

Toby Neville immediately went up in Klaus’s estimation.

.  
.

Neville led Klaus to the small office that had been set aside for his use.

Klaus closed the door and sat down behind his desk, dropping the file Munro had given him into the in-tray. “All right, now that we’re here with no distractions, I want _you_ to tell me what’s been done so far.”

Neville sat down, placing his pile of papers on the edge of the desk. “Well, Major, you’ve seen the tape of the interrogation. By his own admission, Parker’s been selling stuff for years and giving the money to the CND. We went through his records and as Munro said, it looks like it was all pretty small-scale until about a year ago, when suddenly he started handling stuff worth thousands of pounds.”

“Stolen.”

“Undoubtedly – but he won’t say who his suppliers are. You heard what he said in the interview. He claims the goods were donations. He’s been adamant about that ever since we pulled him in. My guess is that he doesn’t really know where the stuff comes from – doesn’t want to know, most likely – but he knows it’s stolen, all right.”

“Afraid of reprisals if he says who the suppliers are?”

Neville shrugged. “Probably. After all, the stuff is valuable, so the people who pinch it have a lot at stake.” His forehead screwed up in puzzled lines. “The way Parker sticks to his story, though, I’m inclined to believe he really does think the money’s going to the CND.”

“And you’re sure it’s not?”

“Not a chance. I found someone in the CND willing to talk, and it looks like Parker’s donations, or whatever he liked to call them, stopped about a year ago. Presumably, about the time that he started to deal in the higher value items. So it’s possible that he started working with someone else, and they’re siphoning the money off, but he doesn’t know.” 

Neville lifted two copies of a document from his own file and handed one to Klaus, who glanced through the first page. 

“So where is it going? Talk me through this.”

Neville turned to his own copy. “The information comes from the bank where Parker deposits the money from the sales. That’s the only thing the account’s used for. When he received money for the goods, he’d deposit the cash in the account, and then the following day the full amount would be transferred automatically to another account in Zurich.”

“And whose account is that? Not his, surely.”

“No, sir.”

“Then who?”

Neville shook his head, apologetic. “I’m afraid I don’t know whose account it is yet. You know these Swiss banks, Major – tight lipped about who they deal with, insist on international warrants before they’ll discuss any of their customers—”

“—and Munro hasn’t authorised anything that will get them talking. Am I right?”

“Yes, sir; I’m afraid so.”

“The jewellery and the painting you recovered from the flat. Tell me more about that.”

“The painting’s at Tallowford Hall, as Munro said: getting assessed. The jewellery’s still in our safe.”

_Still in the safe._ Munro didn’t seem to be in any hurry to get all the evidence in. “And when will we hear from the art gallery?”

“Er— I couldn’t say, sir. They haven’t said.”

“For fuck’s sake! All right, you can let Munro know I’m going to Tallowford Hall tomorrow morning to see if they’ve made any progress, and get things moving if they haven’t. I want you to get on to the technical people here and see what they’re able to do about tracing money transfers. Keep up the pressure on the bank, but there’s no need to wait for the Swiss to invite us in; let’s see if we can get in through the back door.”

“Yes, sir. Will that be all, sir?”

Klaus pinned Neville with a hard look. “Find out if there’s any fucking Nescafé in this building, and if there’s not, go and get me some.”


	2. Chapter 2

At ten minutes to nine the next morning, Klaus pulled up in front of Tallowford Hall Art Gallery. 

Three storeys of red brick soared above him. Needle-sharp towers pointed skyward. Tall, narrow windows stared outward from beneath frowning arches. The gallery occupied a rambling mansion built in the 1840s, gifted to the Gallery Trust by its last private owner, who was no doubt glad to be rid of it. Klaus knew from his own experience how costly it could be to keep old houses in good repair and bring them up to twentieth-century expectations of comfort.

Klaus headed for the front door. The building had looked cold and dour from the outside, and once he was inside, the chill of the centuries seemed to seep through the masonry and into his bones. 

The Head Curator, Raymond Kenihan, greeted him with a flaccid handshake.

“What’s your first impression of the painting?” Klaus was keen to get on with the business at hand.

“I’m afraid I can’t offer you any comment myself, Major von dem Eberbach. You see, I’m not an authority on paintings of this type,” Kenihan said. “I’ve invited someone who does have the right expertise to examine the painting and give us an opinion.”

“This job is highly confidential,” Klaus growled. “It’s essential that as few people as possible are involved; surely you were told that?”

Kenihan blinked, surprised by the dangerous undertone in the Major’s voice. “Mr Munro mentioned it was a sensitive matter, but he emphasised that he needed an accurate assessment and he gave me carte blanche to handle the task as I saw fit.” His voice wavered into a nervous bleat. “So naturally, I’ve called in the best man for the job.”

“So who is this expert you’ve called in?”

“A private consultant. Someone highly respected in the art world, one of the greatest living authorities on paintings of the period.”

“Who does he work for?”

“Oh, no, Major – he doesn’t _work_ for anyone. He’s a private collector. His expertise is acknowledged very widely.” Kenihan checked his watch. “In fact, he is due to arrive here this morning to begin work, and he should be here by now. If you’ll just follow me, Major, I can introduce you to him.”

Kenihan led the way through a short hallway hung with heavily-framed pictures, and ushered Klaus into a spacious bay-windowed meeting room.

The private consultant was standing looking out of the window with his back to the door. As soon as Klaus saw the tall, slim figure dressed in an impeccably tailored pale lavender suit, blond hair curling halfway down his back, he didn’t have to see the man’s face to know who this was. His grunt of annoyance was drowned out by Kenihan’s voice.

“My lord, here is the security services officer you’re to work with. May I present Major Klaus von dem Eberbach? Major, I’d like you to meet the Earl of Gloria.”

The Earl turned, genuine surprise lighting up his eyes. He smiled radiantly, and held out his hand. “Major von dem Eberbach, I’m delighted to meet you.”

Klaus, formal and correct, shook his hand. “Lord Gloria. Thank you for agreeing to assist us.”

“Oh, it’s my pleasure,” cooed the Earl. Kenihan would not have been able to see the lascivious gleam in the Earl’s eyes, but Klaus could not miss it.

Once the three of them were seated, Klaus turned to the Earl. “Mr Kenihan assures me that you’re an expert on paintings of this kind.” The word ‘expert’ rolled across Klaus’s tongue like a sour unripe fruit.

The Earl smiled, unperturbed by the Major’s prickly tone. “I have a good working knowledge of Lanfranco’s works, and that of his contemporaries.”

“His Lordship has been called in as a consultant by a number of prominent art galleries and museums around the country,” Kenihan enthused, keen for the Major to endorse the Gallery’s choice. “His expertise is unquestioned.”

Klaus grimaced. “Then, Lord Gloria, I’ll be very pleased to have your assistance, and I am at your service.”

The Earl leaned forward and purred, “Goo-oo-ood!” in a tone that suggested a very hungry cat in the presence of a dish of cream.

A quiet rap on the door announced the arrival of Kenihan’s secretary. “Beg pardon, Mr Kenihan, but a courier has arrived; the package needs your personal signature.”

Kenihan stood up. “I apologise, gentlemen, but I must see to this. I’ll be as quick as I can.” He bustled out, leaving Klaus and the Earl facing each other.

“Is this one of your schemes, Eroica?” Klaus snarled, as soon as the door closed. “Are you up to something illegal? Because if you are, so help me, I’ll call Interpol myself.”

“Really, Major!” The Earl chuckled. “Always so suspicious! As it happens, this is all above board. Kenihan called me in because of my knowledge of seventeenth-century art. I’m here as the Earl of Gloria, art collector. This has nothing to do with Eroica, I can assure you.”

“It had better not!”

Loud footsteps sounded in the hallway, and Kenihan came back in. “I’m sorry, gentlemen. That was unavoidable. Perhaps we should go and look at the painting in question?”

Klaus and the Earl rose and followed as the Head Curator led the way to a room at the rear of the building. Kenihan unlocked the door, and they stepped into a well-lit, sparsely-furnished space. At the centre of the room, a large gilt-framed painting rested on an easel. 

“This workroom will be set aside for your use, my lord. Nobody else will have access for the time being.” Kenihan handed the Earl a key. “This is your space for the duration of the project. If you need anything at any time, my secretary can arrange it for you. If you wish to work late, get her to clear it with Security.” He looked anxiously at his watch. “I’m afraid I need to go to my next meeting. Sponsor for an upcoming exhibition – can’t keep him waiting. Major, please don’t hesitate to get in touch if you need any further assistance, and feel free to liaise directly with His Lordship.”

The Head Curator offered limp handshakes to both men, and hastened away.

The Earl sauntered across the workroom to stand in front of the painting. 

Klaus huffed resignedly. He needed to have the painting assessed, and if the Earl had been brought in to do it, then he’d have to work with him. He went to stand beside him – keeping a healthy distance between them – to look at the painting.

Seen at close quarters, it was more imposing than Munro’s photograph had suggested. Its sheer size – nearly two metres high and one and a half wide – lent it authority. The figures in the painting had a vitality that Klaus hadn’t expected.

He frowned. _Still the usual histrionic bullshit, though._

“Magnificent, isn’t it, Major?” the Earl sighed. “Such drama.”

Klaus sniffed in disdain. _Trust Eroica to like this sort of rubbish._ “All right,” he said aloud; “we need to know whether the painting is genuine, and we need an opinion about what it’s worth. As quickly as possible. If you make a start today, how long will it take?”

“How long is a piece of string, Major? I really can’t say. I may have an answer for you in a day or so; it may take longer.”

“I can’t wait for it to take longer than a day or so. This piece of string needs to be kept short. What do you need to do?”

The Earl shrugged nonchalantly. “Examine the brush strokes, compare them with other works known to be by Lanfranco. Chemical analysis of the paint and varnish; a close look at the canvas and other materials.”

So the Earl was going to deal in hard scientific evidence rather than foppish, airy-fairy opinions? Encouraged by that thought, Klaus ventured another question. 

“So if it is what it’s supposed to be, how much would it be worth?”

“It depends.”

“Look, Eroica—” Klaus began, exasperated – but the Earl cut him off.

“I know you prefer to deal in solid realities, Major, but a lot of variables are at play. Who’s buying; whether there’s any competition; the last price paid for a painting by the artist; how long since the particular piece has been on the market. Any number of other things besides.”

Klaus held up both hands. “All right, all right. I understand.” He frowned at the painting for a few moments. “Do you have any first impressions?”

“Well, Major, it’s typical of Lanfranco’s style, and of the Baroque movement in general. See, here? The use of light and shadow – the symbolism of the light at the top of the painting, representing Heaven, and the Good; and the dark here at the bottom, representing Evil, and Hell.”

The Earl’s graceful hand moved across the painting, his fingers hovering millimetres above the surface. “See how he shows the Archangel – full of grace and power. The Archangel is every inch the iron-clad warrior. See the delicate detail on his armour – and on his wings. You can see every feather. And his feathers aren’t pure white; here, they’re iron grey to echo the tone the artist’s used on the armour; and here, they’re almost black, to symbolise the Archangel’s solemn duty in driving one of his fellow angels from Heaven.”

The Earl’s hand shifted downward, to hover beside the figure of Lucifer, who lay naked, stripped of his wings and clothing, on the edge of a dark cloud, above the yawning void that showed the way to Hell. “And Lucifer – Lanfranco shows him as a paradigm of male perfection, with a beautiful face and body. He’s even more handsome and graceful than the archangel. And see how his body is contorted with suffering? He hasn’t been wounded; it’s not physical pain – it’s the pain of losing Heaven, and being driven out of God’s presence.”

Klaus stared at the painting, following the supple, fluid hand gestures. Eroica’s apparent regard for the picture mystified him. The man’s fascination with naked men could be easily explained, Klaus thought – after all, he was a faggot, wasn’t he? – but paintings seemed to hold an allure for Eroica that went beyond mere carnal interest. His regard seemed almost spiritual.

“You can also see something of Lanfranco’s contribution to artistic technique,” the Earl continued, “in the foreshortening of Lucifer’s body, with the feet toward the viewer and everything in perfect perspective.”

“That’s just indecent,” Klaus snorted. “You can practically see what he had for breakfast.”

The Earl pressed his lips together as if biting back a retort, then said, “All right, Major. I don’t expect you to take all this in, but I thought it might be useful to you to understand some of the markers that appraisers and buyers look for in paintings of this period.”

Klaus scowled. Eroica had a point. If there was information to be understood that might help to progress the operation, perhaps he should try to understand it – but art was a closed book to him.

“Look, Eroica,” he huffed, “you’re the expert. You know the value of these things. I don’t. I have to rely on your advice. That’s what Kenihan brought you in for. So, can you establish whether it’s genuine or not in the next twenty-four hours?”

The Earl smiled indulgently at him. “I really shouldn’t make any guarantees, Major; but I’ll do my best.”

“Good. Then I’ll meet you here tomorrow morning at nine o’clock, and you can tell me about your initial findings, and let me know how close you are to a conclusive answer. The sooner I can pass on your conclusions to my colleagues, the sooner we can achieve a positive result.”

_And the sooner I can be rid of you,_ thought Klaus – although a small voice at the back of his mind insisted on reminding him that Eroica was not easy to be rid of.


	3. Chapter 3

Klaus arrived at nine o’clock sharp the following morning, half-expecting the Earl to be running late. The Earl was, however, already at the Gallery, and came out to meet him at the Reception desk with his sleeves rolled up and a pair of cotton gloves tucked into his belt as if he’d been hard at work.

“Good morning, Major. Come out to the workroom; I’ve got some coffee brewing.” The Earl led the way through the door marked ‘Staff Only’, looking for all the world as if he owned the place. 

Klaus followed him past a series of offices, and then through the Gallery’s main chamber, heading toward the back of the building. 

Tallowford Hall specialised in pre-twentieth century European art. Its collection was small but valuable, and a discerning visitor could read the history of European art and shifts in artistic fashion and taste in the works hanging on its walls. 

Frowning faintly, Klaus glanced from one painting to the next as they passed. Portraits loomed above him: solemn faces of long-dead worthies dressed in outlandish finery, pale women in satin and lace, chubby children with old eyes and raspberry-coloured lips. Next, there were Biblical scenes: people wearing long robes and sandals, faces turned to heaven. Then, scenes from Greek and Roman mythology, the canvases crowded with naked bodies – dimpled or muscular, depending on the gender.

Glancing back over his shoulder, the Earl remarked, “You appear to be unimpressed with the Gallery’s collection, Major.”

“H’mph. I don’t see why anyone would want to have monstrosities like these hanging on their walls.”

“You have an extensive art collection in your home, Major. I’ve seen it.”

“That’s different. That collection’s been in the family for hundreds of years. It’s part of my family’s capital base, and part of my country’s cultural heritage. It’s my duty to keep it, for the family, and for Germany.”

Smiling, the Earl shook his head. “You pretend to have no appreciation of beauty, Major, but I don’t believe you.”

“Beauty?” Klaus gestured at the pictures on the nearest wall. “Fat naked women? Naked men with swords? All those cloaks swirling around as if they’re in the middle of a hurricane? What’s beautiful about any of that? It’s ludicrous, if you ask me. Look at that idiot there—!” The Major stabbed an accusatory forefinger at a near-naked Achilles, clad only in a war helmet and a wisp of bright cloth, thrusting his sword into a similarly unclothed Hector writhing in the dust at his feet. “Anyone who goes into battle without protective clothing has to be insane. Just as well his heel was his only vulnerable part, since he wasn’t taking much care of the rest.”

“Do I detect a note of irony, Major?” The Earl sounded amused.

“You think I’m joking, do you?” 

With a wry smile, the Earl said, “Well, at least you recognise the story behind the painting.”

Klaus glared. “I’ve had a decent education. I’m not a fool. I just don’t see the point of hanging pictures of half-naked idiots on the wall. Come on, we’re wasting time. I want to know what progress you’ve made with that picture you’re working on.”

He followed the Earl into the workroom. The heating had been turned up a comfortable few degrees warmer than in Tallowford’s public spaces, and the air smelled deliciously of coffee. 

The Earl poured two mugs and handed one to Klaus. “It’s not Nescafé, but I suppose you can make do.”

“H’mph.” Klaus sipped the steaming coffee, pleasantly surprised at the flavour. “So apart from sarcastic observations about my artistic taste, or lack of it, do you have anything you can tell me?”

Leaving his own coffee to cool, the Earl strolled across to _Lucifer Expelled from Heaven._

“I can tell you that I’ve become quite fond of this painting, Major. When you work closely with any artwork, you get to know it intimately, and sometimes that leads to your forging an affectionate bond with it.”

Klaus rolled his eyes. “Spare me the bullshit. Are you anywhere near forming any conclusions about whether it’s genuine or not?”

“Yes, Major – as a matter of fact, I am.” The Earl radiated satisfaction. “All indications are that the painting is an authentic Lanfranco. The canvas is right, the brushwork is typical of his style, and the condition of the varnish is what you would expect for paintings of the era. I’ve been able to pull in a few favours from friends, and had some chemical analysis rushed through – and it confirms that the painting is the right age.”

“So it’s genuine?”

“Yes, Major, it’s genuine.”

Klaus drained his coffee, and plonked the mug down on the bench with a satisfying clunk. “Good. So the next question is: how much is it worth?”

“As I said yesterday, Major, market value depends on a lot of factors. Is your interest in the price academic, or practical?”

The reply ‘None of your fucking business’ danced at the edge of Klaus’s tongue, but he stopped himself. “I want to know its value because I need to get it on the market, in order to flush out the next links in an illegal money chain.”

The Earl raised an eyebrow. “You’re using a seventeenth-century art treasure as _bait?_ ”

“Yes, it’s bait,” Klaus snapped irritably. “Like a fucking goat pegged out to catch a tiger. Or in this case, to identify who’s behind an operation that’s giving the security services a headache. So never mind the disapproval. How much is it worth?”

“I looked up the figures for the last Lanfrancos sold at auction, and they went for something in excess of eighty thousand pounds. This one hasn’t been offered for sale for nearly a hundred years; potentially, that could add to its appeal.”

“Right,” said Klaus. “So – Christies? Sothebys?”

“No, Major.” The Earl shook his head firmly. “If this has to do with an illegal trading ring, your villains would’ve sold it on the black market, and that’s where they’ll be listening for news that it’s changed hands. Word gets around in the trade, you know. So you’ll need a dealer with black market connections. Let me handle this for you.” He picked up the phone, and paused, looking thoughtfully at the Major. “We’ll need a cover story. We’d better pretend that you’re a friend I’m helping to sell a family heirloom.”

Klaus grunted. “Whatever you say.”

The Earl dialled the number from memory, and a bright smile spread across his face when the phone was answered. 

“Sandy! It’s the Earl of Gloria here. Sandy, I have something for sale that you may be interested in. Early seventeenth century, Italian.” 

There was a pause, as the Earl listened. 

“No, Sandy, it’s owned by a friend – a _very good friend_ who lives on the Continent. A regretful sale – a family treasure. Will you have time to see it? Tomorrow afternoon?”

As he hung up the receiver, the Earl turned to the Major with an enigmatic smile. “Well, Major, you are about to meet the United Kingdom’s best black market art dealer.”

.  
.

The next day, a mid-morning flight took Klaus and the Earl to Edinburgh, along with the Lanfranco securely packed in a museum-standard crate. At one o’clock, a taxi delivered them, and the painting, to a small shop on a narrow cobbled street in the old part of the town.

 _Alexander Selkirk – Dealer in Fine Art and Antiques,_ proclaimed a sign painted on the window. 

“All right, Major? Ready to play your part?” 

The Earl looked as if he was relishing the game, Klaus thought. “I’m ready. Just stay on script, Eroica. No complications.”

A small bell jangled as the Earl opened the door and walked through, followed by Klaus, lugging the painting in its crate. He set it down carefully, leaning it against the polished oak counter.

The velour curtain behind the counter was pushed aside, and through the doorway came a small, neatly dressed man with silver-grey hair, who greeted the Earl effusively. Clearly, thought Klaus, the two knew each other well. 

“Sandy, I’d like you to meet a very dear friend of mine – Helmut Schumacher. Helmut’s a business associate from Germany. His family has an excellent art collection; I’m almost envious.”

The Major and the art dealer shook hands. 

“Sandy, Helmut wants to sell a painting that’s been in his family for a long time. I insisted that he come to you first.”

“Well, then, my lord, we’d better get a look at this picture. Mr Schumacher, would you bring your painting through to the back room, please?” 

Selkirk held the curtain back, while Klaus lumped the awkwardly sized crate through the doorway.

In the back room, Selkirk levered the crate open and stood back to look at the painting. His eyes roved across the canvas. He reached for a magnifying glass and bent to examine the painting more closely. 

Selkirk straightened up, and put the glass back on his work-table. “Lanfranco’s works don’t come on the market very often; it’s a treat to see one. You have paperwork, Mr Schumacher? Provenance? Records of sale?”

“No, I regret not, Mr Selkirk,” Klaus said. “You see, this picture has been in the family for a long time.” An expression of hesitant embarrassment crossed his face. “Most of my father’s and grandfather’s paper records were destroyed in the War. Until now, we’ve had no reason to sell it, so we haven’t had any assessment work done. Will this be a problem?”

“Oh, no; I think we can ascertain the painting’s authenticity for you, and produce the appropriate paperwork.”

“Will that take long? I don’t wish to appear impatient, but I’m quite keen to get the painting on the market as soon as possible.” The expression of embarrassment deepened, and Klaus’s voice trailed off into a self-conscious mumble. “I’m afraid I need the cash. Stock market, you know.”

The Earl watched Selkirk look the Major over with the same gimlet eye that he had used on the painting, assessing the cut of his suit, the amount of wear on his shoes, the quality of his wristwatch.

Selkirk turned to the Earl. “My lord, as you know, appraisals usually take several days; but in this case, since Mr Schumacher is a close personal friend of yours, I’ll make it my priority to get this done straight away.” He handed a business card to Klaus. “Mr Schumacher, if you’d call me tomorrow afternoon, I think we should be able to progress the matter.”

“Thank you, Mr Selkirk.”

Klaus and the Earl were ushered out of the workroom, hands were shaken, and Selkirk held the door open for them. As Klaus stepped out onto the street he overheard Selkirk murmur to the Earl, “He’s not your usual sort, m’lord, but he looks like quite a catch – if you can wean him off the stock market speculation.”

Klaus was halfway down the street by the time the Earl emerged, his boot-heels sounding loudly on the cobblestones.

“Major? Major!” The Earl hurried after him. “For god’s sake, Major, slow down!”

The Major stopped in his tracks and turned to glare at the Earl.

“Whatever is the matter now?” The Earl didn’t bother to hide his exasperation. “He’s giving you what you need – why are you acting so disagreeably?”

“Disagreeably?” Klaus exploded. “That idiot thought I was your— your—! _Gott im Himmel,_ do I have to put up with this? I suppose you parade all your fancy-boys through his shop, so he assumes anyone you turn up with is your bed-warmer!”

The Earl’s face assumed the exaggerated patience of a nanny dealing with a toddler throwing a tantrum. “Now, Major, it’s nothing to worry about. You were there under cover. He doesn’t think you are my boyfriend; if he thinks anyone is, he thinks it’s Helmut Schumacher – who doesn’t exist, so why get into a lather about it? Really, Major, you’re over-reacting a little, don’t you think?”

Grumbling, Klaus pulled out his cigarettes and lit one. “You and Selkirk seem to know one another very well.”

“I’ve dealt with him for years. I buy artworks from him from time to time; occasionally he asks me for advice about authenticating some item or another.” They began walking down toward the next street to look for a taxi. “Sandy and I have a good relationship; he recognises my expertise.”

“H’mph. I take it that the shop’s just a front for his crooked activities.”

“Not at all, Major. Sandy Selkirk is a highly respected _legitimate_ art dealer. He has a very solid reputation amongst private collectors throughout Europe.” A small, sly smile crept across the Earl’s lips. “Of course, he also deals very sensitively with his _special_ clientele. Discretion is his middle name.”

Klaus narrowed his eyes. “So I suppose he knows you as Eroica, too.”

“Of course.” The Earl smiled serenely. “He’s the best black market dealer in the country; I’m the greatest art thief in the world. Of course we deal with each other.”

.  
.

Klaus and the Earl returned to London in the early evening. They were met at the airport by Toby Neville, who offered to drive them to their respective hotels, but Klaus insisted on going back to the office first to debrief.

Klaus signed the Earl in at Security, and the three of them went up to his borrowed office on the second floor. The Earl was offered the only armchair in the room. Klaus and Neville sat down on opposite sides of the desk and began to go over what Neville had been up to during the day.

“If I have to sit around waiting, you could at least offer me a cup of tea,” the Earl suggested, sounding aggrieved.

“Go on, Neville,” said Klaus, “go and get the Earl a cup of tea, would you? Keep him happy till we get to the transaction in Edinburgh.” 

The agent darted out, heading for the tea room. 

The Earl smiled smugly.

“Don’t push it, Eroica. You’re only here because that fool Kenihan brought you into the operation, and after this meeting, that’s it. Your involvement’s finished. So don’t try to turn my agent into your personal assistant.”

The Earl affected an expression of wounded innocence. “He seems such an obliging boy, I’m sure he doesn’t mind.”

“This is a security services investigation, not a reception at the Palace. And don’t get any ideas about Neville. Just leave good English boys alone.”

Before the Earl could reply, Neville returned with a steaming cup of tea and a three month old copy of the _Times Arts Supplement,_ both of which he handed to the Earl. 

“I hope the tea’s all right, my lord. I found the _Arts Supplement_ in the tea room. I’m sorry it’s not the latest one.”

“Why, thank you, Toby – how thoughtful,” the Earl murmured, with a winsome flutter of eyelashes.

Klaus glared.

Neville, oblivious, resumed his seat.

“Have you made any progress with identifying the bank accounts?” Klaus asked, reaching for a document Neville had in front of him.

“’Fraid not, sir.” Neville glanced uncomfortably across at the Earl, unsure how much he should say in front of him. The Earl appeared not to be listening, his interest taken up by stirring his tea and reading the _Times Arts Supplement._ “If we could narrow it down somehow, find out which country the account holder is in, for example, we might be able to make some educated guesses about where the money’s going. But the Zurich-Baden Investment Bank isn’t going to tell us who owns the account.”

“The Zurich-Baden Investment Bank?” The Earl’s head jerked up, his eyes suddenly alight with interest. “I know that bank. What was the account number?”

Klaus locked eyes with Neville and raised a warning eyebrow. _Don’t say a thing,_ his expression said; _I know what I’m doing._ He pushed the piece of paper across the desk toward the Earl, who ran his eyes across it, reached for the phone, and dialled. 

There was a pause, then: “Bonham love, could you put Jamesie on the line, please?”

Out of the corner of his eye, Klaus saw Neville goggling in disbelief at this turn of events.

“Jamesie, darling, I need you to help me out. That Swiss bank you deal with sometimes, the Zurich-Baden Investment Bank. Tell me again what the logic is behind the account numbering.” 

The Earl paused, listening. James’s excited babble was just barely audible to the others in the room.

“I see. So if all English-owned accounts are prefixed with X652, does that imply that every country has its own unique prefix?” 

Another pause, while more excited babble sounded down the line.

“Yes, I see. Then, could you tell from the account number where the owner of an account lives?” 

A gleeful expression began to spread across the Earl’s face. 

“And you say the last four digits indicate either government or private ownership?” 

The Earl glanced across at Klaus, who gave a single nod. 

“Then, what about this number?” The Earl read out a string of digits and letters from Klaus’s paper, and paused, triumphant delight kindling in his eyes as he heard the response. 

“Jamesie, you’re a genius! I’ll have to do something _very special_ to thank you when I get home.”

The Earl hung up the phone, looking very pleased with himself.

“Well, spit it out,” Klaus snapped. “What did he say?”

“According to James, based on the Zurich-Baden Investment Bank’s account numbering policy, the account in question is owned by a Russian. To be more precise, someone in the Russian government bureaucracy.”

Klaus and Neville looked at each other.

“KGB?” Neville ventured.

“Possibly. Not necessarily.” Klaus pondered for a few moments longer. “Neville, can your technical team hook up some sort of electronic surveillance that can penetrate beyond what we already know, and trace the other accounts this one might be linked with?”

“I’ll talk to them tomorrow, sir.”

.  
.

The Earl went back to his hotel by cab. Toby Neville drove Klaus to his accommodation in his own car. Klaus would just as soon have taken a cab himself, but decided it would be good for their working relationship if he let Neville drive him.

Neville said very little on the way to Klaus’s hotel. He appeared to be thinking something over, and Klaus wondered whether he ought to push him to say what was on his mind, but when they pulled up outside the hotel, Neville turned to Klaus. 

“Major: the Earl of Gloria. He seems remarkably well-informed. I mean, I thought he was just an art assessor, brought in to verify that painting, but he seems to have become integral to the operation. Connections with the right art dealers, inside information on Swiss banks – just who are we dealing with here?”

Klaus turned a professionally-blank face toward his colleague, wondering how he should describe Eroica. A bloody thief? _No, his identity as a thief is of no consequence in this case._ Damned pervert? _Who’s never laid an unwelcome finger on me, come to think of it._ Fucking nuisance? _Whose uninvited involvement in missions has led directly to a successful conclusion, more than once._

“Are you at liberty to say, sir? I mean, is his status classified?”

“He’s a NATO asset,” Klaus stated firmly. “With particular expertise and extensive connections.” 

Vague as it was, that seemed to satisfy Neville. “Then, will he continue working with us on the case, sir?”

Klaus sighed. “Try and stop him.”


	4. Chapter 4

Next morning, Klaus breakfasted in his room and came down to the hotel lobby in good time to meet Toby Neville, who had offered to pick him up. As he stepped out of the lift, he scanned the lobby – and over in the corner, seated in one of the leather armchairs dotted about for the convenience of the hotel’s visitors, sat a very familiar figure. Somehow, Klaus was not surprised.

He crossed the lobby.

“What are you doing here, Eroica? How did you know where I was staying?”

The Earl folded up his copy of _The Times_ and dropped it onto the low table beside his chair. “I heard Toby mention the name of your hotel when we were all leaving your office last night. I thought it would save time if I came over here to meet you first thing.”

“And what makes you think I want you to meet me?”

“Well, Major, we’ve made such good progress since you decided to let me assist you; I thought you might like to continue the arrangement.”

Klaus took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “There is no ‘arrangement’, Eroica. I’m grateful for your assistance over the painting—”

“—and the bank account!”

Klaus took another breath, a little shallower this time. “Yes, and the bank account. But there’s nothing further to warrant your attention.”

“I beg to differ, Major. How are you going to handle the offers for the painting? What will you do if there’s a bidding war? If that happens, what instructions will you give Sandy?”

Behind them, the hotel’s revolving door turned slowly, and out stepped Toby Neville. 

“Good morning, Major. Good morning, Lord Gloria. The Major said last night that you’d be continuing on the case with us. I didn’t expect to meet you here this morning, but I’ve got room for you.”

The Earl flicked a smug glance at Klaus, who glared at him. 

“Come on, then, if you’re coming. You can sit in the back seat.” Klaus turned his glare on Neville, who was looking confused. “Don’t ask. Just drive.”

As they pulled out into the traffic, Klaus said, “Don’t go to the office yet. Drive us over to Stepney. I want to have a look at Parker’s flat.”

“There’s nothing in it, sir; all his papers were cleared out, along with the stolen goods. There’s nothing there but his furniture and household stuff, such as it is.”

“Doesn’t matter. I want to see it.”

The Earl kept very quiet during the trip. Klaus knew he was taking in every syllable that he and Neville uttered, piecing all the information together.

They turned down a narrow street, pulled up in front of a tired-looking brick building, and parked with two wheels up on the pavement. Klaus stepped out of the car. Lack of signage suggested that all the buildings on that side of the street were residential. Further down, on the other side, some small shops could be seen – a greengrocer, a butcher, a café. Straight across the street was a small hotel, a sign by its front entrance proclaiming “The Duke of Marlborough Offers Special Rates for Long Stay Visitors”.

“The flat’s in here.” Neville led the way into the brick building. Faded, worn linoleum crackled underfoot. The air smelled stale. “It’s on the top floor. There’s no lift, I’m afraid.”

The three of them trudged up the stairs, their footsteps echoing in the narrow stairwell. At the top of the stairs, Neville produced a key and opened the door. 

“There’s only one flat on each level. They’re all rented out as live-in artists’ studios. Nobody would have taken much notice of a few paintings being taken in and out.”

“Was Parker an artist?” the Earl asked. “I haven’t heard of him.”

“He painted a bit, apparently, but politics took up most of his time. He lived here for years.” Neville grinned. “I don’t think he was much of a one for housework.”

“I see what you mean,” the Earl said, wrinkling his nose at the dirt-encrusted floor and grimy walls.

The first room occupied the entire width of the building, with windows on either side. The ‘artist’s studio’, Klaus supposed. He lifted a curtain at the front of the building and looked out; the view along the street was clear in both directions. Crossing the room, he checked the windows on the other side. Behind the building there was a paved yard, entered from a narrow laneway. You wouldn’t see an approaching vehicle until it was coming into the yard, but once it was there, the view was clear.

Klaus and the Earl followed Neville through a door, beyond which they found a small, stark bedroom, a poky kitchen, and a cramped bathroom barely large enough to hold a shower and toilet. A door in the back wall led out onto the fire stairs.

“How thoroughly did Munro’s team go over this place?” Klaus asked. 

“They were mainly interested in getting the place cleared out. They were on a strict timetable.”

Klaus opened a cupboard and looked inside; then he eased the cupboard away from the wall and peered behind it. 

“Neville, move the car around to the yard at the back,” Klaus said. “I want to spend some time here, going over the place again.”

As Neville clattered down the stairs, Klaus said to the Earl, “This’ll take an hour or two. You don’t need to be part of this; you won’t know what to look for. You can either sit there in the corner and stay out of the way, or go down and sit in that café across the road while you wait. We’ll come and get you when we’re finished.”

“Are you serious? ‘Go and stay out of the way, don’t bother me’?”

“You’re the one who decided to attach yourself to this mission. It’s not all thrills and excitement in this game, you know.”

The Earl huffed in annoyance. “I’ll be across the road in the café, then.” He stomped out loudly.

A few moments later, Neville returned. “What’s wrong with the Earl? I passed him on the stairs and he seemed very put out.”

The ghost of a smile passed over Klaus’s lips. “I told him to keep out of the way while we go over the flat. He thinks he might miss out on something.”

.  
.

As he stomped along the footpath, the Earl decided there was no point in maintaining his rage, so he slowed down and had a good look around the neighbourhood. 

There was very little traffic; not much reason for people to come here, he supposed. Apart from the man behind the counter, the butcher’s shop was empty; in the greengrocer’s shop, a solitary customer picked through a tray of apples.

When he came to the café, the Earl pushed the door open, and a bell above the door tinkled. Chairs were clustered around four small tables and a short bench built under the window. Two rosy-faced old ladies had just finished their tea and were packing up their shopping bags and pulling on their coats. The Earl went to the counter and ordered a pot of Darjeeling tea and a portion of shortbread, then picked through the selection of magazines laid out for customers to read. Whoever selected the reading material had commendable taste, he decided: he picked up a copy of _British Art Today_ and last month’s _Art Collector’s Digest,_ and settled himself into a seat in the back corner, from which he could watch the comings and goings in the café and see the street through the window.

His tea and shortbread arrived, and just as he was pouring his first cup, the bell jingled and another customer came in. 

“The usual, Billy?” called the lady behind the counter.

“Yeah, ta, Sal.”

The newcomer, a man about twenty-five dressed in worn brown corduroy pants and a brown paisley shirt, came and sat at the next table. He wore his hair – also brown – in a waist-length ponytail. His pants were splashed with paint, and there was a hint of paint ingrained in his knuckles and under his fingernails.

“Ta, Sal.” He grinned at the lady when a mug of tea was delivered and she gave him an affectionate smile in return. The Earl noticed that no money had changed hands.

“ _Art Collector’s Digest,_ eh? Interested in art?” Corduroy-and-Ponytail addressed himself to the Earl, who smiled. The young man had a genial face dusted with freckles. You couldn’t call him handsome, but he looked pleasant and friendly. 

“You could say so,” the Earl replied. He held out his hand. “I’m Dorian.”

“Billy Whetstone.” 

They shook hands.

“Do you paint, Billy?” The Earl nodded at the paint-splattered knees of his corduroys.

“What? Oh. Yeah. Acrylics, mostly; some oils.” He brushed at the paint stains with one hand, to no effect. “My studio’s near here. I came as I was.”

“A local artist?”

“Yeah.” Billy gulped down a large mouthful of tea. “I moved down here about eighteen months ago. Place is full of artists. I like being in amongst other creative people. Do you paint?”

“A little. I’m a collector.”

“Oh. Well, you should come to my exhibition. I’m showing my paintings at the Guardhouse Gallery around in Commercial Road in June. There’ll be posters.”

The Earl smiled. “Perhaps I will. Where’s your studio, Billy?”

“’Cross the road.” Billy waved in the direction of the building where Klaus and Neville were going through Parker’s flat. “It’s a bit basic, but the rent’s cheap and there’s plenty of room. Lots of natural light. I’m on the first floor. The ground floor bloke’s a sculptor, and there’s a writer in the basement flat. I’d really like to have the upstairs flat, the top floor – I think the light would be better there – but the old bloke who lives there has been there for years and he’s not going to move any time soon. He’s a painter, but I don’t think he does much work now.” Billy slurped his tea. “He’s a bit eccentric, but he’s a good enough neighbour.”

“Eccentric?”

“Yeah. Well, he’s political. An old-time communist.” Billy chuckled. “He holds what he calls ‘awareness-raising meetings’ in his flat every couple of months. Brings in mobs of students and what not, talks about how our own government is enslaving us all and communism is the answer. You know the drill. I went to one of his meetings when I first moved into the building. Never again! All too earnest and not very realistic. Hell, I want the rich to stay rich. Somebody has to buy my paintings!”

The Earl laughed. 

Billy lowered his voice and leaned closer to the Earl. “Between you and me, I think the old boy gets up to some dodgy stuff.”

“Good heavens! What?”

“Well, I dunno. But he gets deliveries of stuff. Every month.”

“Stuff?” The Earl lowered his voice, too. “What sort of stuff? Not— _drugs_?” 

“Nah, nothing like that. No, every month, the first Wednesday of the month, a van pulls up outside in the evening, and a couple of burly blokes cart a lot of stuff upstairs to the old boy’s flat. Paintings. Boxes. I mean _big_ boxes.”

“So what does he do with all this?”

Billy shrugged. “Don’t really know; but over the next few weeks, you see him taking it downstairs and off down the street, one thing at a time. Sometimes another bloke comes round in a little van and helps him.” He looked around furtively, although there was nobody else in the café but the two of them, Sal having disappeared into the back room. “I reckon he’s dealing in stolen goods. Don’t quote me – I’ve got no proof – but it looks mighty suspicious to me.”

The Earl sat up, a mildly shocked expression carefully assembled on his face. “Good lord, I wouldn’t want to get mixed up in that if I were you.”

“Don’t you worry, I’ve been very careful to keep out of it. I keep my attention very firmly on my own work. I can do without any distractions.” Billy drained his mug. “Well, nice meeting you, Donovan. Keep a look-out for my posters. The Guardhouse. In June.”

The little bell tinkled again as Billy left the café. Thoughtfully, the Earl poured himself a second cup of tea, and began nibbling at his shortbread.

.  
.

The Earl had finished _Art Collectors’ Digest_ and was halfway through _British Art Today_ when a rap on the window attracted his attention and he looked up to see Toby Neville. He finished the last mouthful of shortbread, dropped the magazines back on the rack, and went out to join him.

“We’ve finished at the flat,” Neville said; “the Major’s ready to go.” 

Neville led the Earl around to the back of the building, where his car was parked. 

Klaus was leaning against the wall, his arms crossed over his chest. “There was nothing in the flat,” he said. “You didn’t miss anything.”

“Well, I have some news for you.” The Earl glanced up at the first floor windows, aware that Billy might be looking out to see what ‘Donovan’ and his companions were up to. “We should get into the car and leave; I’ll tell you on the way.”

The car crawled out of the paved yard, and as Neville turned down the back lane, Klaus shifted round in his seat so he could see the Earl.

“What have you got?”

“I met one of Parker’s neighbours. An artist who lives on the floor below. He’s noticed that Parker gets regular deliveries of paintings and other items, on the first Wednesday of every month, in the evening.”

“That’s tomorrow, sir!” Neville remarked.

“Tell me exactly what he told you,” Klaus said. “Exactly.”

The Earl went over his conversation with Billy Whetstone, in detail. 

Klaus said, “If the suppliers haven’t found out that Parker’s been arrested, another delivery should arrive tomorrow night. If that fucking flat was under surveillance as it should be, then we’d see who they are.”

“I don’t think we can get Munro to back down; he’s so obsessed with the budget,” Neville began, but Klaus cut him off.

“Fuck the budget. I’ll sort that out later. There’s that hotel across the street. We can set up in one of the upstairs rooms. Starting this evening, to get the lie of the land.” Klaus settled himself more squarely into his seat. “Drop me at the office, Neville, then take Lord Gloria back to his hotel. Then go home and get your gear for an overnight operation.”

The Earl thrust his head and shoulders between the front seats. “I’m in on this too. Don’t try to fob me off!”

“You’re a fucking civilian! Keep out of it!”

“Don’t ‘civilian’ me, Major! You need another person. This is twenty-four hour surveillance; you need three people.”

“Eroica—!”

“When have I ever let you down? Toby? When we get to my hotel, wait for me while I get my gear ready.”

Neville glanced nervously at Klaus. “Major?”

“Oh, fuck it!” Klaus snarled. “All right. You’ve persuaded me. Just keep your wits about you and don’t fuck up.”


	5. Chapter 5

“Rooms for three, on the top floor. Yes, sir, I think I can manage that.” The reception clerk at the Duke of Marlborough Hotel opened up the register and checked through his list of vacancies. 

The three men crowded into the lobby were dressed in comfortable, faded clothing and well-worn boots; each was carrying a heavy backpack. Two were English; the third sounded European but the clerk couldn’t quite place where he was from. 

“Yes, sir; there are two singles and a deluxe double with kitchen and phone on the top floor, all available.”

“Deluxe double?” The blond one with the long braid had been letting the others do the talking; suddenly he was interested.

“There’s a double bed, a telephone, and a kitchenette where you can prepare food. Well, reheat food, and make toast. Phone calls are extra, of course; you dial zero for an outside line.”

“We’ll draw lots,” the foreign-sounding one said firmly, glaring at the blond. He turned back to the clerk. “We’ll take them. We’re not sure how long we’ll be staying; is that a problem?”

The clerk huffed in amusement. “Long time since we had to turn visitors away, sir. Open-ended is fine; we’d appreciate 24 hours’ notice when you plan to vacate.”

The three signed the register and deposits were paid; the clerk handed over the keys. The backpackers crammed into the ancient lift, and began the slow, clanking ascent to the top floor.

Klaus, Neville and the Earl stepped out of the lift. A quick check confirmed that the rooms they’d taken were the only ones on the top floor, so there’d be no other guests wandering by to see what they were doing. 

“I’ll take the double,” Klaus said firmly. “We’ll establish our lookout point in that room and we can all make use of the facilities.”

“I thought you said we’d draw lots,” the Earl protested.

“That was for the clerk’s benefit. We’ll use the rooms in the way that’s of most use to the operation. Both of you go and put your stuff in your rooms and then join me in here.” Klaus let himself into the double room, which was in between the other two, and closed the door.

Five minutes later, the three were gathered in Klaus’s room. The central area seemed barely large enough to house the double bed, small table and two chairs, and meagre wardrobe that it held. At one end of the room, the screened-off “kitchenette” consisted of a laminated bench with a microwave oven and a kettle on it, and a row of cupboards below. A scanty bathroom was squeezed in at the opposite end, and the telephone hung on the wall next to the bathroom door. The room’s most positive attribute was the row of windows overlooking the street, which gave a clear view in both directions and a direct line of sight to the entrance to Parker’s building. 

“Your room’s hardly better than mine, Major,” the Earl remarked, seating himself on one of the chairs. “I think ‘deluxe’ is something of an exaggeration.”

“Comfort is a matter of discipline,” Klaus snapped. “All right. With three of us here, we can keep a watch on the flat at all times. I’ll take the first shift, the Earl can take the second. Neville – you get a good night’s sleep and take over in the morning. Then we’ll rotate again.” 

The others nodded.

“I don’t expect that there’ll be much to see until tomorrow evening. Then, if Parker’s suppliers turn up, we all have to be ready to deal with them. Now, to update you both: I phoned the art dealer in Edinburgh this afternoon. He’s got all the paperwork sorted out to sell the painting, and I’ve instructed him to get it on the market straight away. I’ll phone him again in the morning with the number for this room in case anything happens in the next day or two, but I doubt that the thing will be sold that quickly. Neville – have you got everything set up for when the money hits Parker’s bank account?”

“Yes, sir. We’ve put electronic tracers on the Zurich account. If the money gets transferred on to a third location, they’ll harvest the number of the destination account. It’ll all happen automatically, and any activity at all will alert someone back at HQ.”

Neville and the Earl went back to their rooms, and Klaus set the more comfortable-looking of the two armchairs in place by the window in the corner of the room. With the lights out, he was able to see clearly down the street in both directions, with an unimpeded view of the front entrance to Parker’s building. At two a.m., he woke the Earl, who took his place at the window while Klaus slept, fully clothed and wrapped in a blanket on top of his bed. 

Neville took over watching the flat at seven a.m. The Earl returned to his room to get some more sleep. Klaus went out to find a shop to buy provisions, since one night at the window had already exhausted the room’s paltry supply of teabags and coffee sachets.

When Klaus came back, Neville was slumped in the chair, gazing down the street with an expression of intense boredom on his face.

Klaus boiled the kettle and made two cups of Nescafé. He handed one to Neville. “Anything to report?”

“What d’you reckon?” Neville sat up and stretched. “Nobody’s gone in or come out across the road. A few people have walked past. Hardly any traffic.” He sipped his coffee. “What happens if nobody turns up tonight?”

Klaus shrugged. “Might mean they’ve got wind that Parker’s gone. We don’t know for sure there was anyone scheduled to come anyway. We just have to test the hypothesis, and respond as appropriate.”

“Yeah, I guess so. Major— why do you call the Earl ‘Eroica’? Is that some kind of code name?”

“Something like that.”

“Do you work with him much?”

Klaus rolled his eyes. “More than I want to. Although, I might as well admit this: he’s a good operative when he puts his mind to it.” He sipped his coffee, and smiled grimly. “Half the time, he’s a bloody loose cannon; won’t take orders. But when the chips are down, I’d trust him above most other people.” Another sip of coffee. “Don’t you tell him I said that, Neville. He’d be bloody unbearable if he knew.”

Neville went back to his room when his shift was finished; Klaus made himself another drink and took up his position by the window. Down in the street, pale afternoon sunlight splashed an illusion of warmth on the walls. A few people and a smattering of cars crawled across the scene. Klaus’s eyes were on the here and now, but his mind was on what might transpire that evening.

If Parker’s suppliers turned up, as the garrulous neighbour had suggested they might, then the three of them should be able to overpower them. That would surely mean progress. Information. Material evidence to trace. 

And if they didn’t—? If they didn’t, then that would suggest this avenue of inquiry was dead, and unless Neville’s technical team could come up with something concrete when the bank account was next used, then the operation was in trouble.

The door opened, and the Earl let himself in. “Only me, Major. I came to get something to drink. All this waiting around is deadly.”

Klaus handed the Earl his empty coffee mug. “There’s Nescafé. Make me another one, too.”

The Earl turned on the kettle and began spooning coffee granules into the mugs.

The phone rang. Klaus got up from his chair and crossed the room to answer it.

Sandy Selkirk’s Edinburgh accent sounded down the line. “Mr Schumacher? Good news. We’ve had a very quick response, and I have a buyer for your painting. A Mr Jones, from Luxembourg.”

Klaus glanced back toward the kitchenette. “Buyer for the painting,” he mouthed silently at the Earl.

“He’s made an offer which I think is fair and reasonable,” Selkirk continued, “although I could hold out for a larger sum if you wish.” 

“How much?”

Selkirk mentioned a figure that sounded very large to Klaus.

“A moment, please, Mr Selkirk.” 

Klaus covered the mouthpiece and repeated the figure to the Earl, who nodded, and said, “That’s a fair price, toward the upper end of what you might expect.”

Uncovering the mouthpiece, Klaus said, “Yes, Mr Selkirk, I accept. Can you make the arrangements?”

He hung up the phone. The Earl handed him a steaming mug of coffee.

“That was a faster result than I’d expected. Take over the chair, will you, Eroica? I’ll go and find Neville, and let him know.”

Ten minutes later, Klaus was back again. 

“Neville will arrange for someone back at Headquarters to deposit the sum in Parker’s bank account in cash, once we get confirmation from Selkirk that the buyer has paid. Then, we wait to see what the electronic tracking tells us.”

The Earl was sitting in the watcher’s chair sipping Nescafé, observing the comings and goings in the street below, so Klaus pulled up the second chair and joined him at the window. The two of them sat sipping coffee, watching the street. The time passed, the sunlight shifted on the walls outside, and nobody entered or left Parker’s building. 

A few minutes before six, the phone rang again.

Klaus crossed the room and lifted the receiver. A sequence of harsh expressions crossed his face, and then he held the phone out to the Earl at the end of a stiff arm. 

“For you. One of your pack of thieves,” he snapped, and stalked into the kitchenette to make himself another cup of coffee as the Earl took the phone and began to speak.

“Bonham love! You have some news for me?” A pause, and then: “Oh, don’t worry about what James says; I’ll deal with him when I get home.”

Hearing the Stingy Bug’s name, Klaus began to make as much noise as he could, clashing crockery, opening and closing cupboards loudly, trying to block out the Earl’s voice. He had no desire to hear about any of the man’s domestic imbroglios. 

In spite of his efforts to bury the sound of the conversation, he caught the words “Jonesy” and “Luxembourg”.

_Luxembourg? What the fuck?_

The Earl hung up the phone and sauntered into the kitchenette. “I’m getting tired of instant coffee. Do you have any tea? Loose leaf preferably, not tea bags.”

“No, I don’t have any fucking tea, loose leaf or fucking tea bags. What was that about Luxembourg?”

The Earl raised his eyebrows. “Were you listening in to my conversation? Really, Major.”

“Luxembourg. Are you up to something, Eroica?”

“James has been making people’s lives difficult over some money transfers, that’s all.” The Earl began poking through the cupboards, trying to find something to drink other than Nescafé.

Klaus seized him by the shoulders and spun him round so they were face to face.

“What money transfers? It wouldn’t have anything to do with a certain painting, would it? Have you and Selkirk been cooking something up between you? Eroica, so help me, if you’ve done anything to put this operation in danger, I’ll take you apart limb by limb.”

“Major, calm down. Your precious operation isn’t in any danger. There’s no need to get worked up.”

“The truth, Eroica! Did you get one of your bloody thieves to buy that painting? If you’ve been exploiting inside information for your own advantage, so help me—”

“You’re jumping to conclusions, Major—”

“And how did your gang of ruffians know the phone number here? Tell me that!”

“I let them know, of course; if anything went wrong at the Castle, they’d need to be able to get in touch with me.”

Klaus let the Earl go and took a step backwards, breathing hard. He was going to need the man’s help in another hour or two; best not to damage him or offend him beforehand. He took a deep, calming breath.

“Eroica,” he said, reining in his temper, “is there a connection between Selkirk selling that bloody painting, and that phone call from your thieves?”

The Earl looked Klaus straight in the eye. “Major, I would do nothing – _nothing_ – that would endanger your operation. If the painting’s been sold, that’s good news. Bonham wanted my advice about a household matter. You have nothing to worry about.”

Behind them, the door opened, and Neville came in. “Nearly time for me to take over here, Major,” he said.

Klaus tore his gaze away from the Earl. He wasn’t entirely convinced he should trust him, but he needed to.

“All right,” Klaus said; “The Earl and I will take up our positions in Parker’s flat. I’ll be in radio contact with you, Neville – report anything you see, no matter how trivial. If anyone turns up at the flat, be ready to come and join us. We don’t know what we’re expecting, so be ready for anything.”


	6. Chapter 6

Night thickened over London. In Parker’s flat, lights burned in the bedroom and kitchen, suggesting that someone was at home. In the dark studio, Klaus kept watch by the street-side windows; the Earl watched at the rear windows above the yard. Across the street, Neville sat by the windows of the lightless hotel room, watching and waiting.

Klaus stretched, and checked his watch. Ten forty-five. Their informant hadn’t specified what time Parker’s ‘burly blokes’ made their deliveries, but it was starting to get late. 

Across the room, the Earl voiced Klaus’s doubts. “Major? What happens if they don’t turn up?”

“Probably means we’ve missed our chance to find out anything through this line of inquiry.”

“So, then what?”

“We can interrogate Parker again. Do it properly this time, not like Munro’s half-arsed effort; but I wonder how much Parker actually knows. He’s got his head so far up his arse crusading for nuclear disarmament, whoever we’re looking for has probably got him fooled.”

“You mean, he’s being used, and doesn’t realise it?”

“It’s possible. So if Neville’s electronic tracing doesn’t give us anything, we’re fucked.”

The Earl sighed, and stared out of the window. Below, dark shadows filled the yard, and there was nothing to be seen. He turned back to the Major.

“Major, I hardly like to say this, but – well, what if it’s just some elaborate scheme for fencing stolen goods? What if there are no international security implications?”

Klaus tipped his head back and let out a long breath. “It was your fucking accountant who suggested the Zurich bank account may belong to the Russian government. You keep telling me he’s some kind of prodigy when it comes to numbers and banks.”

“But what if the money isn’t part of a Soviet plot? What if they’re Russian, but it’s just someone covering their tracks and it’s organised theft, pure and simple?”

“Fuck it, Eroica, I don’t know. This whole operation’s built on supposition. What if someone else is using Parker? What if they’re Russian? What if the amount of money being handled means something of international importance is going down? What if? What if?” He huffed, irritated and impatient. “That’s espionage, Eroica. Get used to it. We see more dead ends and closed doors than we see results. This whole fucking operation could turn out to be a waste of bloody time.”

Down in the street, something caught his eye. Klaus froze. He held up his hand to stop Eroica from speaking. 

A van crawled slowly along Bay Horse Lane.

Klaus reached for his communicator, but Neville’s voice was already crackling in his ear.

“Van approaching, sir. Coming up the hill.”

“Roger that. Stand by.”

The van passed Parker’s building, and turned down the alleyway that led to the back lane and the paved yard behind.

“Get ready, Eroica. We don’t know what we’re going to see. Be ready for anything.”

The Earl nodded, and checked the knives he’d secreted in his boots and the hidden sheaths under his sleeves. 

Klaus lifted out his gun.

“The van’s pulling into the yard,” hissed the Earl.

Below, they heard the rear door of the entry hall open and close. Next, footsteps on the stairs. Two sets of footsteps. The cadence of their tread suggested men walking unencumbered; they’d be slower, less rhythmic, if they were carrying large packages. Visitors here to call on Parker, but not delivering stolen goods.

“Eroica!” Klaus hissed. “Go down the back stairs and disable their van. I’ll deal with this.”

“There are two of them, Major—”

“I’ll handle it! Fuck off and see to the van!”

Reluctant, but not prepared to argue, the Earl slipped quietly through the inner door, heading for the rear stairs leading down to the yard. 

Klaus positioned himself beside the front door, which would place him effectively behind anyone who came through the doorway. He waited, listening, his gun at the ready. 

The footsteps came to a halt on the landing. There was a moment of silence, and then the ear-shattering sound of rupturing wood as the door was kicked inward. 

Two men burst into the room with guns drawn. The overhead light was flicked on.

Klaus leaped forward, knocking one of the men off his feet; a sharp kick sent the man’s handgun spinning across the floor toward the far wall. The second man whirled around, gun raised, but before he could focus, Klaus charged forward and knocked him off balance, and he fell heavily on top of the other. Klaus snatched the man’s gun from his grip, and stood back, his magnum pointed at the two.

“Stay where you are, you scum,” he grated out through clenched teeth. 

_"Who the fuck are you? Where’s Parker?”_ one of the men growled in Russian.

 _"I’m the one holding the gun, you piece of shit; I’ll ask the questions,”_ Klaus snarled back in the same language. 

Behind him, a floorboard creaked, and another voice spoke in heavily-accented English. “You’re not the only one holding a gun, Iron Klaus – and you might like to surrender your weapon, if you don’t want your lover’s brains sprayed all over the floor in front of you.”

Slowly, Klaus raised his head, to see his old nemesis Mischa the Bear Cub standing in the doorway, the muzzle of his handgun pressed against the side of the Earl’s head.

Klaus kept his own gun pointed at the two Russian agents still crouched on the floor. “These dirty dealings had KGB written all over them. And here’s the living proof. Mischa the Bear Cub. ”

“It would be advisable to put down your gun, Iron Klaus. You’re outnumbered here, and I won’t hesitate to kill your blue-blooded bitch-boy.”

Klaus’s eyes flickered momentarily to the Earl’s. The man was standing stock still, without a tremor, but Klaus could see fear in his eyes. 

He snapped his attention back to Mischa. “Let him go, Mischa. He’s just a thief. This is nothing to do with him.”

Mischa chuckled nastily, then without warning shoved the Earl toward the corner of the room where he fell into an awkward heap. Mischa levelled his pistol and fired in the Earl’s direction. With the silencer on, the sound of the shot was little more than a vicious sneeze. The bullet hit the plasterboard wall, a deliberate miss, but the Earl yelped in fright.

“Fuck you!” roared Klaus.

The two Russian agents surged upward from the floor, and Klaus was knocked off his feet in a confusion of limbs and weapons that ended with Klaus kneeling on the floor, disarmed, with one of the agents pointing a gun at him.

“Now, that’s better,” Mischa gloated. “The proper balance of power is restored. Lyev, go and disarm that perfumed peacock in the corner. He’s usually got more than one knife on him.”

The agent hauled the Earl out of the corner by his hair and began to search him roughly.

“Leave him alone!” Klaus barked. “This is nothing to do with him.”

“Tsk, tsk, Iron Klaus. You bring your lover into our affairs, he must bear the consequences.”

“He’s not my lover, you dirtbag. He’s a fucking civilian. Leave him be.”

The agent, having stripped the Earl of his knives, clouted him casually across the jaw.

“That’s enough, Lyev,” Mischa warned. “Don’t damage him too much yet. He’ll prove valuable later; he may be the key to loosening Iron Klaus’s tongue.” He circled around Klaus. “So, Major. We came to pay a little visit to our comrade who has been working so diligently on our behalf – and what do we find? We find you. You and your aristocratic boyfriend. And furthermore, we see that our comrade’s dwelling has been cleared out, and he is no longer to be seen.” 

“Three armed thugs, to check up on one old man?” Klaus chided.

The one called Lyev raised a hand to strike Klaus, but Mischa stopped him with a lazy gesture. “Don’t waste your energy, comrade. You’ll have your chance later; then you can really show the Iron Major what you’re made of.”

He smiled at Klaus, a thin reptilian smile. “You see, we were not entirely surprised by what we’ve found. We had some pre-knowledge that things were not as they should be. Comrade Parker was always scrupulous in observing our agreed procedure, phoning his contact as soon as any item was sold to a dealer or put on the market. But this time—” Mischa gave an exaggerated shrug, raising his hands in a baffled gesture. “This time, there was no call – and then, we received information that the very valuable painting he was handling for us had been offered for sale. This was a perplexing thing, and we knew straight away that something was amiss. Either our comrade was in need of correction – or something had gone very wrong.”

“The KGB must have fallen on hard times,” Klaus remarked sarcastically. “Is the Soviet Union so impoverished that you need to get old fools like Parker to sell paintings for you?”

Mischa shook his head in mock pity. “You have your talents, Iron Klaus, but you don’t understand the politics of community activism. People like Comrade Parker have their place in the larger scheme of things. Their work is small work, but important. Like the ladies who arrange the flowers in churches. The work they do enhances the experience of those who participate – does it not, Iron Klaus? You are a frequenter of churches. I know this. Your file records that you claim to be an atheist, but still you attend churches. Such a clear illustration of the double-think possible in the minds of westerners. But I digress. We have people like Comrade Parker working for us across western Europe, helping us to turn useless artworks into money, and spreading the message that capitalist imperialism is a system doomed to fail.”

“Using ill-informed fanatics from small-time political groups to do your dirty work for you,” Klaus scoffed. “A sideshow! Why do you bother? A good example of the Soviet Union’s inability to weigh up returns on investment.”

A dangerous smile thinned Mischa’s lips. “I must disagree, Iron Klaus. The right people working in these organisations can have a very satisfying effect. They can destabilise the people’s trust in their governments. Governments and the police must then turn attention to managing the organisations’ activities and watching their membership. Destabilisation and distraction. Very satisfying returns on small investments.”

Mischa prowled past Klaus and stood in front of the Earl. “I suppose Iron Klaus brought you into this matter because he trusts your corrupt dealings with artworks and the black market.”

“At least I understand the true value of art,” the Earl retorted defiantly. “That painting was a treasure, an exquisite piece of work. How did you get your grubby hands on it?”

Mischa chuckled. “The kitten has teeth!” He offered the Earl a humourless grin. “A treasure, you call it. We see it differently. There’s no need amongst right-thinking Soviet citizens for decadent Western art. We spit on it. Decadent art is for decadent people.” He sneered at the Earl. “Decadence is something you would understand, Eroica, is it not? In your own parasitic lifestyle, you elevate yourself above the proletariat of your country, as your family has done for generations.” He turned his gaze back to Klaus. “You yourself would understand something of this, Iron Klaus, coming from the aristocracy yourself.”

Klaus clenched his teeth, and said nothing.

“And so, there being no need for decadent art in the Soviet Union, we have found a way to put these unwanted symbols of moral decay to work. There are still such things to be found in Russia, in the houses once owned by the rich. There is a market for these things in the West. We sell them to the people who want them, and take their money to put it to better use. I’m sure you’ll appreciate the irony of it: their money is being used to bring forward the Revolution that will end their self-indulgent way of life.”

“What a joyless existence you must lead in the Soviet Union.” The Earl sniffed disdainfully. “A country with no art is a country with no soul.” 

“Art should be improving to the mind, Eroica. Art should show the people the right way to live.”

“I suppose you mean paintings of factories and tractors,” the Earl drawled. “Muscular young workers, rosy-cheeked and cheerful.”

“Mock as you will, Eroica, but right-thinking Soviet citizens do not need or want paintings that stir the baser instincts, or arouse envy and avarice. The Soviet Union has done away with such things.”

Klaus snorted derisively.

Mischa turned his gun toward Klaus. “Don’t forget who is holding the gun here. All right, comrades. Enough of this. Secure our prisoners—”

The stifled cough of a silencer-muffled gun cut through Mischa’s words. Lyev let out a yell of shock and pain, and dropped to the floor clutching his leg. Blood welled through his trousers and between his fingers. 

Mischa and his other agent swung around to return fire. Another shot, and another, came from the half-open doorway to the inner rooms. The second Russian agent crumpled to the floor, dropping his weapon, grabbing at his shattered ankle. 

The Earl lurched sideways to snatch up the guns the agents had dropped, rolling out of their reach.

With both his men down, Mischa leapt toward the splintered front door and plunged down the stairs three at a time. 

Toby Neville, gun in hand, emerged through the inner door.

“You took your fucking time, Neville!” Klaus said. “And we’ve lost Mischa.”

Downstairs, they heard the back door slam, and Mischa’s footsteps running across the paved yard. There was the sound of the van door, then the impotent groan of an engine failing to start – followed by more footsteps as Mischa left the scene on foot. 

Neville grinned. “I called for support about an hour ago, when things were taking longer than we expected. We’ve got agents at both ends of the street, and Headquarters has his description if he still manages to evade capture. I’ll get someone to take their vehicle in so we can go over it in the morning.” Neville produced two sets of handcuffs. “We can get these two back to Headquarters; there’ll be a reception committee waiting for them.”

Klaus returned the grin. “You’re learning.”

.  
.

The business of delivering two wounded prisoners to Headquarters in the middle of the night kept Klaus occupied for a long time.

While he was dealing with that, Neville took the Earl up to the second floor, to the corner where his own desk was located, and settled him into a comfortable chair with a cup of tea and – to the Earl’s amusement – the same copy of the _Times Arts Supplement._ Neville himself got busy pulling out files and beginning to fill out paperwork.

“Toby, love, it’s nearly three o’clock in the morning!” the Earl remarked. “Can’t that wait until tomorrow?”

“Mr Munro’s very particular about paperwork. And since we have to wait for the Major, I might as well make a start.” Neville sighed. “Shouldn’t speak ill of my superior officer, but sometimes I think Munro’s a bit obsessed by administrivia. The Major seems more of a man of action. He seems to put the mission first.”

“He’s very driven.” The Earl sipped his tea.

“There’s an agent here who’s very single-minded about putting the mission first, no matter what. Never had time for a personal life. Never married. No close relationships. I wonder if the Major’s like that?”

“Somewhat.” The Earl smiled wistfully. “But I live in hope.”

“What?” Then, Neville’s perplexed expression softened into a sympathetic smile. “Oh. I see. Does he know?”

“Doesn’t want to know.” The Earl sipped his tea again, letting the steam hide his eyes.

 

Nearly an hour later, Klaus reappeared. Neville and the Earl had lapsed into comradely silence, one reading files and the other the _Times Arts Supplement._

“The prisoners are secure. We can go home now. Debriefing at 1300 hours.” Klaus nodded at Neville’s pile of paperwork. “You’ll have to report that your backup agents failed to capture Mischa.” 

Neville started to say something, but Klaus waved him to silence. “The Bear Cub’s an old hand; he probably had his own backup waiting in the next street in case things went wrong. One day, his luck will run out – and I plan to be there to see it.”

 

A driver was found to take the Earl back to his hotel. Klaus and Neville watched him leave, standing in the foyer waiting for their own cars to arrive.

“Major, did you know there’s an art thief who calls himself Eroica?”

The Major blinked blandly at Neville. “Is there?”

“Yes, there is. I came across an entry in a file about Mischa the Bear Cub. Something about an item called the Lubljanka Report. A thief going by the name of Eroica was involved.”

Outside, a car drew up. Klaus nodded toward the front door. “Your ride’s here.”

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THREE WEEKS LATER, AT SCHLOSS EBERBACH

Placing his steaming coffee mug on the desk, Klaus began sorting through the pile of mail. 

Bills. A letter from his father. The latest copy of _Tanks and Artillery._ At the bottom of the pile was a large, flat package. There was no return address on it, but the stamps were English. 

He unsealed the brown paper wrapping, to reveal a stiff cardboard folder containing two large colour photographs. The one on top showed Lanfranco’s _Lucifer Expelled from Heaven_ hanging on a wall. The subtly patterned wallpaper suggested it was in a private house. _Or castle,_ Klaus thought darkly.

The second was a photograph of a naked man, posed exactly as Lucifer was in the painting: his well-shaped feet toward the viewer, one knee raised so his genitals were concealed behind a lean and shapely thigh. In Lanfranco’s painting, the curve of Lucifer’s torso and the angle of his outstretched arms suggested agonised despair; in the photograph, they merely accentuated the well-toned muscles and unblemished skin of the model – who lay with his eyes closed and an expression on his face that looked more like ecstasy than pain, his head pillowed on a cloud of blond curls.

Eroica. Did the man have no shame? 

He’d almost redeemed himself, in Klaus’s opinion, by the businesslike way he’d conducted himself throughout the London mission. Even though Klaus hadn’t wanted him around initially, once things got under way he’d made himself useful; and he hadn’t bothered with flirting or throwing around the innuendos.

And now he had to undo all that good work by sending lewd pictures of himself through the post.

No shame at all.

At Klaus’s elbow, the phone rang, interrupting his thoughts. 

“Von dem Eberbach.”

“Have you opened your mail yet, Major?” the Earl’s voice purred. 

“Yes, I have.”

“And did you get the little present I sent you?”

“H’mph. I got a photograph of that bloody painting, and an indecent picture of someone who looked very much like you, you pervert. You do know that it’s illegal to send pornography through the post, don’t you?”

A rich chuckle from the Earl. “Yes, Major, I am aware of that. I’m also aware that there’s no law against sending works of art, or photographs of works of art.”

“You consider yourself a work of art, do you?”

The chuckle deepened. “As a matter of fact, I do. _Do you,_ Major?”

“Fuck off, you pervert!” Klaus slammed the phone down. 

He picked up the photograph of the naked Earl, ready to drop it into his paper shredder – then paused. Instead, he opened the bottom drawer of his desk, and placed the photograph in it with care.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Giovanni Lanfranco (1582 –1647) was an Italian painter of the Baroque period; many of his works showed Biblical scenes. The painting in this story, _Lucifer Expelled from Heaven,_ is fictitious.


End file.
